it isn’t spring but everything in the call of bird and undone jacket tells me it is.

the snow is ice for the melting, sliding son into fields of cows and fence and he squeals when he sees the animals and throws straw like confetti and steps across the one that didn’t make it to greet the babies that did

trent and his mother, in overalls, gripping my boy between them wary of the cows who would die to protect their newborns flailing, and i know, i tell them, with a bow of head: i would die, too. for a mother’s life courses through the veins of her children.

and our maker’s life, through each of his creatures, and even in the sabbath of straw and sun and child laughing i feel it pounding, red

i’ve been missing God lately, as though we used to sit side by side and drink tea… as though he isn’t surrounding me in air and tree and flower, as though he could ever leave, yet i miss him with an ache echoed in the stillness of the farm, in the stall, sitting next to son staring into the horizon waiting for heaven to return

and i wonder if he misses me